Regrets
by Villettess
Summary: Matthew and Mary look for each other in a crowded room at a party several years after his first proposal. They reminisce about the past.
1. Chapter 1

**Regrets I**

He looked across the room, scanning quickly to catch a glimpse of her, her reflection in the mirror or on the a glass door, her form slender and lithe as a ghost's, her face radiant amongst the sea of other faces, other forms. That face he still couldn't forget, its contours he searched in the dark hours of the night. At night he dreamt of the feel of her skin and the imprint of his flesh against hers, the softness of the strands of hair freed from the shackles of the hair pin, the faint tinkle of the black onyx earrings that blinded him the moment the light reflected her radiance, when he stared at her.

He thought that the night of the protest sealed their fate, that they were bound by something more than fervor, eagerness, passion even. He remembered the swell of her breast as she drank the last dredges of brandy, which he offered to calm her nerves upon Sybil's return. He caught the glistening wetness of her skin on her neck, her temples, above her lips, and he knew how he wanted to touch her, feel her pulse mingle with his own.

They hadn't touched until she told him not to pay attention to the things she said. He couldn't argue with her then. Indeed, her words were far from his mind. Instead, it was the sense of her, and need that overwhelmed him, as a wanderer in the desert lunges after the first sighting of an ocean of sustenance within his reach. He had drunk in her sweetness, felt her urging, and responded to her need for him, her fingers brushing the bristles of hair on his half-shaven face. And he had felt the throb of her pulse as his hands ran the length of her neck, the hollowness of her collarbones, the soft mounds of her back as he traced it through the thin, sequined black dress.

For that one magical night they were alone, her father having gone up to see her mother, the servants keeping their careful distance.

"Marry me," he had said, pulling away from her, anxious to convey the sincerity in his request. For a moment, her eyes looked pained, accusing. Then they grew wide and softened. It was all he could do to not get lost in their depths, the layers giving her away so he could almost reach the treasure buried in the deeps—her ardor, her affection, her passion, her love.

"I love you." His words seemed amplified, as if from a loudspeaker, a siren in the room. He didn't hear the shuffling of the staff in the kitchen, Carson's walk of inspection, the buzz of the night animals.

She pulled her eyes from his, her hands glided to her side and disappeared under the hard oak table so they were out of reach. She looked down and bent her head slightly. He studied her closely, and saw the dark eyelashes brushing her cheeks, the tiny freckles dusted near the bridge of her nose. Her eyes opened wide again but were clouded, searching, this time. Her lips parted slightly, as if to say something.

"Take your time, of course, " he said, driven by what appeared to be fear, fear of her answer. Not "No," but "Yes." It would have been too much. He could see now he couldn't have handled that much happiness.

He heard the ticking of the grandfather clock in the room. He noticed the cut of dried bread in the half-eaten sandwiches.

"Yes," she said, and he steadied himself, wrung his attention back to her words and their meaning.

"Yes, I think it's best I have some time to think this over." He found himself nodding but she quickly brought out a hand and touched his folded hands.

"Thank you," she said, smiling, and he was warmed when he saw the white of her teeth, perfect but for the slight long incisors on each side. She was unique in every way, like no other woman he had met. Changeable yet steady, she was an enigma he yearned to solve. It delighted him to find his thoughts aligned with hers, and it propelled him to discern the mystery of her actions. She seemed both secretive and open, like a favorite path one traverses again and again, only never failing to be surprised by its new revelations, yet taking comfort in its familiar landscape. When he was with her, he felt joy and challenge, excitement and change. He was both lost and found.

He welcomed her grasp, held her hand in both of his.

"I'll wait…yes," he said, reassuring himself and her.

As he watched her disappear into the house, half of her skirt trailing after her as she lifted and clutched the other half to her side, her body lustrous as a pool on a dark wintry night, the cream of her skin, hands, neck and face illuminating her like a halo. He thought he would wait as long as it took, if only he could watch after her like this, awed by her beauty and spark, wit and brilliance, reassured she was his.

As he searched for her in the crowded drawing room, hoping to see her, fearful of her absence, he admitted that it was he who had proved false. He had left her.

"Would you have stayed, if I had accepted you?" she had asked, her lace gloves stained with her tears, that summer's day during the last garden party at Downton. He had been hurt by her hesitation, fearful she wouldn't love him without his money, that she couldn't love him otherwise.

And yet, he couldn't deny that he loved her glamour and the riches that made her who she was—the silk of well-tailored dresses that hugged her body, the glitter of jewelry that matched the shine of her eyes, the style of her hair, the manner of her walk, even the proper distance between them that made the wanting, the need more poignant, the separation more painful. He had wanted to provide her nice clothes and a full house, entertain her abroad and fulfill her wishes. And yet, his pride had come in the way, had blinded him to reality though he had denied it. He had wanted Mary to choose him completely, forgetting her other needs, her independent streak, her wholeness.

He was filled with shame when he recalled how common he had been, expecting convention when she was the reverse in so many ways. Even when he knew, now, that convention satisfied but little. For Lavinia had tried. She had offered her affections, wrote to him, waited for him. He was glad he had a sweetheart to write to, make plans with, start a life away from the trenches and mayhem of war.

And yet.

And yet. He had give up trying to forget Mary. For the more he did so, the violent the memories that assailed him, that continued to pierce his consciousness unawares. The sight of her walking down the length of the living room floor, as he stood watching, hiding behind the drawing room door; her giggling with him over dinner in honor of Anthony Strallan; playing games at the night fair and her honest admittance of her cares—which he had thought bold, unladylike, admirable; sharing jokes about his mother and her grandmother's feuds over the flower show.

That he missed her friendship took him by surprise. He always thought he had to break his romantic entanglement with her, curtail his lust. But he hadn't imagined how impossible it was to shut her from his life. He had come this far. He had to see her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Regrets II**

They said he would be here today. She looked for him from the corner of her eyes, trying to appear engaged with a conversation here, a piece of gossip there, appearing cheerful at news of success, conscious of the weight of loss.

In the early days after the dreadful garden party, she had thought she had made up the whole thing, that her confusion over the preceding events—Matthew's proposal, her apprehension about disclosing her past, her mother's surprising pregnancy, her aunt's reprimands, even Evelyn Napier's embarrassing acknowledgement—had deluded her into thinking more of Matthew, more of him than he deserved. Which made his rejection even more hurtful, as if she had built her expectations so high only to have them crumble and shatter in front of the fortress that brought him to her in the first place. For without the question of the entail, she wouldn't have met him. She may have even been married to Patrick.

"I am a lost cause to you!" She had burst out to her mother, unable to listen any longer to her father's favorable appraisal of Matthew, his unwitting way of diminishing her, as if he somehow knew her cracks. As if she was already dead to him.

She would have gone on hating Matthew, as she did at the very beginning of their acquaintance. She had every reason to. He intruded into their lives when he had never stepped foot into Downton, he was worlds apart and could never understand their rules, he took her place in her father's priorities, maybe even his affections, as the "son" he's always wanted, he led a comfortable, useful life in Crawley House while she wasted her days at home with no profession and no exceptional talents. It seemed like the more others liked him, the more they left her behind.

"Women like us don't have a life…we are in a waiting room until we marry," she had confided to Matthew at the night of the fair. She had come to the fair, curious about what it would be like that year, eager to leave the home and be alone for a few hours. The air was hot and heavy with the presence of all sorts of people—grubby children, elderly gentlemen, flower girls, farmers, the yells of victory as games were won, the thrills of the children on daring rides, the claps of people awed by the circus players, the whirl of sand from all the commotion, the moisture of dew and perspiration. Submerged in the crowds, watching other people frolicking, laughing, sharing, while she walked unaccompanied and apprehensive, she couldn't help but admit how distant she was from everyone else. She wondered how long she would have to walk thus, fearful of discovery, yet yearning to resolve.

And then Matthew had sprung upon her, bringing with him news of the world outside—his job in Ripon, his stake in "the great matter." When he spoke to her, it was as if she wasn't Lady Mary of Downton Abbey. When he smiled, he didn't appear threatening or facetious or even clever. He was merely her equal, a friend. When his blue eyes, now brighter in the warm firelight of the fair, met her own, she didn't feel the scruples she labored under at home. It was as if his gaze invited her to be open.

It was a funny thing, she thought afterwards, how she felt she could tell him what she really thought, even if it was silly or pretentious. It was as if she looked to him to challenge her, agree with her, even to mock her. As long as she knew he was engaged with the conversation, that he was sincere.

And he was. In fact, she couldn't think of when he didn't act in earnest, unlike the other men she had known. Even Kamal, whose lust had burned her, left her broken. No, Matthew was safe. He couldn't willingly hurt anyone, even her. Or so she had been led to believe.

"You mean a great deal, a very great deal," he had said one night, when they were alone in the library, discussing the entail. She had seen him hesitate—he, who was so sure and forthright. She had felt the blue of his eyes pierce into her own. She may have imagined that his hands, when he shook hers, trembled a little, but she wasn't sure. Perhaps it was her own reaction to something anew. When he said that the "matter" troubled him a great deal, she believed him, because she saw it in the slump of his shoulders, the tentative walk, the worried lines near his eyes, even the way his hair, a wavy auburn style she had made fun of in earlier days but which had endeared him to her, stood on edge as if pulled by the electricity around them.

She wasn't naïve enough to not notice that he was different around her, that he would try to seek her out, draw her out, not with danger and licentiousness like other men had done, but with genuine regard and curiosity.

She hadn't realized the full effects of his regard for her, or her need for that regard, until the day of the protest, until she had seen Sybil, flushed with admiration for him for rescuing her. Was it the threat posed by her younger, passionate sister that led her to say what she did, start on a path of no return? Or was it seeing Matthew safe, unharmed with no evidence of having put up a fight, but for the faint, coin-shaped smear of blood on his lapel. Whether it was gratitude, relief, or possession that drew her to him that night, all paled in comparison to what she felt afterwards, when Matthew kissed her.

She still remembered how heady she was, with the heat of his touch, the taste of brandy and Mrs. Hughes' late night cucumber sandwiches, the woody scent of aftershave and exertion. She remembered the feel of her fingers interlaced with his hair, the warmth of his scalp, the throb of his temples. He was insistent but assured, near yet far and she had found herself clinging to him amidst the contradictions—or in spite of them—pulling him deeper but just enough to push away, yet not far enough to lose this shared stream, the midnight dance. She felt the seat cushion pulsate with her movements, heard the pitter-patter of feet upstairs, felt the cufflink, caught in the gauze of her sleeve, graze her skin. Waves of panic flooded her as she found herself caught between desire and defeat, yearning for more, yet frightened of what was to come.

She hadn't expected him to propose then and there, his hands holding both of hers, his eyes searching her own. She knew he meant it, that he cared for her deeply—that he loved her— oh, he was honorable.

She had looked away, slowly taking her hands from his hold. She almost wanted to tell him about Kamal and that fateful night, that dangerous move. And her mouth opened slightly, unsure of how to start. She knew he must be told, he must know to whom he's proposing.

But then he had told her to take her time. And he was in earnest, his face full of concern for her, so she had agreed, told him it was best she should have time to think it over.

"Do you love me enough to spend your life with me?" he had asked months later, impatient and accusing. She had dragged it on, postponed giving him an answer. To distract herself from the news of her mother's surprising announcement, her father's raised hopes, she had sought refuge with her aunt in London, who had asked her if she could be happy being the wife of a country solicitor.

The truth was, she didn't know. Not then. Starting an entirely new life on her own terms in new surroundings, disconnected from Downton, had never occurred to her before. Accustomed to others waiting on her, being dressed in rich gowns and chaperoned to lavish parties, entertaining important people and going on grand tours abroad, she couldn't envision a life more different. She saw now that it was cowardice that held her back, prevented her from taking a step towards freedom, a life unburdened by her family, her history, the past.

And yet, the past would never let go. Like a restless ghost, it remained as a shadow over her present joys and prospects. Would Matthew have accepted her after realizing her folly? Would he have retained his esteem and regard for her? And if he didn't, how could she bear losing his love and the other thing, the life she knew at Downton? What else would she have to live for, to call her own?

He hadn't given her a chance to know, to explain. Instead, he had told her was leaving, that he had so far been living in a dream, and that he must return to reality. His words struck her. She had felt her body shake with the sensation of falling, as she had done many years ago when Diamond had overlooked a hidden tree stump and had toppled mid air, sending her to earth so she was hit with the full force of hard ground, harsher rocks, the weight of nature at a moment of imbalance, a rupture in an otherwise perfect law.

But physical wounds heal, bones mend. It had taken her months to recover and she had only mustered the strength to ride Diamond when she turned twenty. It's the heartache, the invisible wounds that last, those which, like a spark that sets ablaze, need only a mere hint, a word, a look to set the flames of unrest and despair, the years of longing and regret.

"Don't quarrel with Matthew…one day you may need him." She hadn't imagined how her mother's prophetic words would come to haunt her, stealing her sleep on many a night, and pleasure from any number of daytime diversions. Even when she knew that the world had changed overnight with the start of the war, when she had managed to see Matthew off, when she must bide her time at home as a creature of duty, serving and yet served, she knew she needed him. She had concealed this visit from her family, managed to keep tonight's engagement from Sir Richard Carlisle. She had even made excuses to Anna. No one must know.


	3. Chapter 3

**Regrets III**

Was it her? He thought his eyes were playing tricks on him again. No doubt, for he had had a long day, didn't expect to come here. He wouldn't have, if one of the servants hadn't leaked the information, that Lady Mary was planning on coming to the village "for one of her charity works." Unusual, he thought, for the event was out of the way from Downton. And not immediately for a cause Mary would be quick to support—women's knitting contributions. She, who had scoffed at convention, told him about how boring women's duties were, how they kept them perpetually in a "waiting room". But that was all so long ago and things could have changed. Then he remembered the toy rabbit she had given him when he boarded the train the last time he had seen her. He could still feel the softness of the baby blue yarn, the comfort the dark eyes had given him during his war, his moments of fear, horror, surrender. Yes, so much could have changed.

He had been surprised to see her at the train station. She had been smiling, like so many women sending their men off to war. But of course, _he_ was not hers. His mother was trying to put on a brave face, but Mary was not quite readable. But maybe he had imagined that, the mystery around her. For she had been well, as if nothing had happened during the garden party, when he had left her in tears. She was never down for long.

"If you like a good argument…we should see more of each other," he had said. And yet, he was the one who had run away, unable to handle an argument.

But it didn't seem so long ago, now that he saw her. He was sure it had to be her. There was no mistaking the dark hair that framed her face in a style he always remembered her wearing—with a side parting and folds gathered just above her neck. There was no hair loose, out of its clasp. Then he saw her perfectly arched eyebrows, which moved with such quickness that he sometimes thought they were more honest than her eyes, those black pools he could drown in.

But there was something changed, unmistakable. He was surprised at how thin she had become. She had always been slender, like a rare reed standing tall in the riverbank, a dandelion just about to scatter into shimmering dust. But the woman he saw was far from this. She was much thinner and pale. Her collarbones, the swell and fall of which he had spent hours imagining in earlier days, seemed to protrude out of her flesh, giving her a starved appearance. The transparent satin of her sleeves clung to her like skin so he could make out her arms, which were lank and weak, not like in the past when he remembered them as being firm, taut, quick to parry if she had been allowed to fence. She had once been fiercely athletic. "You know Mary. She likes to be in at the kill," Edith had said.

A small thought flickered in his mind. Had something terrible happened? Had she been ill? Did someone hurt her?

But he brushed the thought aside. He would have heard, surely, if something awful happened. He had heard about Sir Richard Carlisle, after all. But however unpredictable that liaison must have been, he was sure there was nothing alarming. Not yet. Then, what could be the matter?

Was it the war? He knew it must have been hard for her, for all of them. What, with having to convert their house into a home for convalescing soldiers. How shocking it must have been for the ladies to come face to face with men and wounds, blood and brutality.

But was it really? Was he sure she would have been shocked at the sight of humanity at peril, the cruelty of mortality? How much did he really know about her?

He had seen her struggling, attempting to say or do what she wanted, unencumbered by duty and family, like a fledgling trying to escape the nest. He remembered her sly comments during dinner, her words heavy with allusion. He recalled his mother telling him how she wanted to do right by William. He remembered—painfully—their row about the proposal.

"Matthew, you always make things so back and white!" she had said, her voice raw, her lips dry, her form fragile in the warm, cruel summer. He told her that it was a simple matter of yes or no, as if a switch could be turned off and on.

"I want to…"she had said, forced by his urgency, the pettiness of his request. He still remembered her that day, on the threshold of something. She was wearing a white suite and hat, her face and person open, and for a moment, free. The sincerity of her remarks should have purified her. He should have been kinder, more patient. And now, it might be too late.

His eyes met hers and he felt himself thrown back, lightheaded, like he had been the first time he had seen his men brought back to the camp without their limbs. It was a sight that made him feel worthless, lost, helpless, bitter. He had to blink again and again, standing motionless, to catch the details: the strands of hair pasted on the throat, the missing eyelashes, the colors of the layers of skin exposed by the gash on the surviving leg, the balloon of blood in the soiled bandage. The room had spun at the look of recognition, at the sight of the familiar in the sea of chaos.

Was he in danger too? Was he next? Was it somehow his fault? Could he have helped, prevented some of this? Should he have acted? Could he cause even more harm? He stood motionless, unaware of what was around him.

* * *

><p>She had been careful, she thought. But they wouldn't leave her alone.<p>

"Where is your mother?"

"Are none of your sisters in town?"

"And your aunt wasn't able to attend today?"

People still expected her to come accompanied, as if she was a mere debutante of seventeen, on the threshold of the biggest ride of her life. But she wasn't seventeen. She was far from that green girl who only dreamt of parties to show off in, conquests to win. She wasn't even twenty-four, when she had experienced what it was to lose. She had been happy in Matthew's presence, though not always—one never could with someone so clever and argumentative, who would find glitches in your speech, catch you for your petty thoughts, chastise you when you complained off guard. But she had liked his attention, even his displeasure.

She remembered the conversation they had once in the garden. She had been reading and Matthew had come looking for her father. He had walked over to her side, sat by her on the bench, kept her father waiting while he talked about Sybil and simplicity, politics and passion. He had told her they should see more of each other. She couldn't argue with him. The silence was so pleasurable that they had sat for a few minutes, her trying to stifle a laugh, him trying not to give in. Words were never really her strong suit. Matthew had then walked away, looking back at her with a boyish grin, as if to say "This argument isn't over. Just you wait!"

When his eyes met hers, it was as if the two years hadn't passed between them, as if he had kept his promise and come back, as if she hadn't seen him off in the train station, his uniform collar so starched she was afraid they would collapse under the wait of goodbyes.

She felt his eyes pull her in like a whirlpool, much as they had done that time they shared a kiss during that tempestuous night. She would, could spot that blue anywhere. But his eyes didn't seem welcoming tonight. His expressions were blank. His face looked so grey she thought he was a ghost. In earlier days, she might have teased him for his dull sight, befitting a "dull boy." But she could no longer do that.

The distance seemed insurmountable, even though they were only a few yards away. She still had to tend to the many voices grabbing her attention like tentacles, forcing her to break the chain that held him to her, search and lock it again, fearing his escape, another time, another loss. She was glad the gathering was large, no one would suspect. Besides, there were many men in uniform in that room.

She caught his gaze again, when she had rounded a corner, having managed to ward off a few provincial matrons. He had moved little, perhaps just craned his head towards her direction. What was the matter? Why didn't he walk towards her? Why couldn't he rescue her from this throng of admirers, cloying, stifling her with their thanks?

She didn't think they needed to thank her. She didn't deserve much of that. If only they knew about the fires that had to be quenched at home. Her heart quickened at the thought of Downton, her family, and the scandal that threatened to destroy it all. And her part in that ordeal filled her with remorse, fresh shame. Had Matthew heard? Surely, nothing was certain. And he couldn't have been told this soon. Mrs. Crawley had promised that much, at least. More for his sake, she was sure, than for her own.

Her head was throbbing and she suddenly felt weak, so much that the lady next to her asked if she wanted to lie down. She asked her to bring her some water and as soon as she had left, she made way for the nearest door that led outside, taking one last look at Matthew, hoping he would understand.

* * *

><p>When he had seen her shake a little—the cold, perhaps?—and seen the glass she was holding tilt so it spilled its contents, blood-red on the white floor, he had roused from his own thoughts. He had wanted to rush to her side, tend to her.<p>

He could only blame himself. Did he do wrong in coming? And now? His mother's letters had hinted at some sort of tension in the big house, but he had tried to dismiss it. He didn't want Downton to dominate his thoughts day in and day out. He had gone away with that explicit purpose. He was no Lord Grantham. Besides, he had Lavinia. Still.

But seeing Mary now brought a surge of guilt. Lord Grantham's affections he had taken for granted. But how could he have turned his back on them all, especially Mary? Did he think he could escape that easily?

Then why had he come tonight? It couldn't be because the party was a convenient distance from his quarters, so far from London and Lavinia and everyone he knew. What did he expect to say to Mary? He was so caught up in the thought seeing—or not seeing—her that he had thought of little else.

He followed her out slowly, his pains in his leg forgotten. It was as if he she was all that mattered.

The door led into to small garden, with a path leading to an archway, and beyond that, an area enclosed by clipped hedges. He could make a faint outline of a white bench in the dark space.

It was a breezy night and the air pregnant with the sounds of harvest. As he walked, he could make out bottle-blue shadows and a graceful silhouette, heard the clip-clap of heels, and when the moonlight shone through some clearing from trees moving in the wind, like bursts of lightning on a stormy night, he saw the outlines of a form he had memorized long ago.

He watched her walking, still taking in the view, savoring it, storing it in his trunk of memories. When she disappeared through the archway, he almost sprinted forward, wincing in pain as his leg took a sharp turn.

He saw her facing the bench, her hands folded against her chest. He stood in that archway, unsure of whether to go in or leave.

What was he doing here? Why did he follow her here? Why couldn't he let her go?

He wanted to ask her if she was all right. He wanted tell her to sit, rest on the bench. He wanted to hold her, care for her, make her well again. In the darkness, he made out the gentle angles of her face, the curve of her waist. The ribbons on her dress teased him, inviting him to trace their length, over her bodice to the dip in her stomach, to her skirt and lower. He pictured her dark hair splayed against the white bench, the rouge stains of her lip cream branding forever the place, the moment as their own.

And he could have closed the distance between them, the limp obliging, in that place where no one else was about, occupied only by his muse and the world he knew and missed—the fullness of nature, the loveliness of the tress, the fragrance of the flowers, his place in the order of things.

* * *

><p>She had folded her hands instinctively, more to protect her heart, to stop her from doing something rash. She had seen his limp. Though she wasn't supposed to be surprised, she had let out a gasp, the sight taking her by force. Matthew injured—actually injured! And no one told her. Did his mother know? What else had happened? Was that why he was silent, with that expression on his face? Would he recover, or would he be permanent scarred, like those poor men in the house, shell shocked and raving mad? And then how could she bear it? How could she lose him completely? She had even borne his engagement, as long as there was hope me might return as he used to.<p>

Yet the war was unstoppable. It could very well take him away.

The sudden reality of this, of seeing him, hit like a blow, made her head spin. She wrapped her arms around herself to steady herself, remind her of the reality of her own existence.

She could have walked over to him, pulled him past the archway, taken him deeper into the garden and into that peaceful fog of darkness and dreams. She could have held him in her arms, kissed the skin above his eyes and made him forget the scenes he had seen. She could have whispered a tune in his ear, something they both remembered playing during the nights he had dined with them, when they had talked and laughed together. She could even have given herself, hoping he would be soothed by the warmth of her skin, her hair smelling of the fragrance of the flowers from Mr. Molesley's garden, her stockings sprayed with mud she had accidentally slipped into when Branson brought the car that rainy morning, her breath tasting of the sweet eats Mrs Patmore had made from the recipe passed on for centuries, the jewels in her choker shining like the lights in the great hall.

But would he want her? Would he be insulted by her behavior? Would he push her away?

She knew he deserved more, that somehow the war made one want bigger and better things, to live a more just and quiet life. Maybe he wanted to start something new, get away from the dirt of the past, the crushing burden of history.

* * *

><p>Would she talk to him? Accept him? Forgive him? He was worse than before, changed in ways he couldn't fully comprehend. Could she bear it? Could she have him as less than what he was before? Did she not deserve better, something far removed from the futility of war?<p>

Downton. The name was like a mantra on his lips. He yearned for its light and beauty, its strength and days of innocence, its comfort and unquiet peace.

Downton. She wanted him to come home, to recover in her presence. She yearned for the old days of comedy and companionship, of long walks and stolen kisses. Instead of oppressing her, the past seemed like an elixir, all she had amidst the dangers and uncertainties of the present.

She walked towards him. She reached out a hand so her fingers felt the cross stitch of the pattern on his chest pocket.

He moved towards her, one hand holding onto the archway, the other reaching for her so he felt the coolness of the satin on her sleeve, the warmth of the skin beneath. Just.

"Mr. Crawley, there's someone asking for you." The servant had retreated politely. But it was too late. The spell was already broken.


End file.
